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Extinction/Chapter 1
Sanity is the premier chapter of Extinction and is the first chapter of Part One. It was released July 13, 2015. The premier chapter of the story showcases the ordinary life and struggles of Conner Kilderry, the last man on Earth as far as he is concerned. Struggling with both his past, present and dark future, Conner's mentality slowly slips into oblivion. Sanity "My world is fire and blood. Once, I was a cop. A road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own ways were broken. It was hard to tell who was more crazy… me… or everyone else." - Max Rockatansky. Man. The average man. Among the first beasts to walk on this planet, the average man can speak, talk, sense and do all these things that other beasts assume crazy. Man can do some great things, yet, the most tragic of all beasts on the earth. Other animals were raised on survival, they were taught how to kill, hunt, hide…. survival was their game and they were ready to play. Humans? A deformed set of values that had them walking all over the earth trying to live a life in peace. They interacted, they worked, they slept, they ate and repeated in a cycle. They weren’t tamed and trained to survive the cruel world. Instead, they believed humanity to be so important that they didn’t need to learn it. No, they thought nothing could hunt and tear them down. They thought the top of the chain was theirs to be permanent. Why? Because unlike the other mindless beasts out there, humanity believed in two simple things: order and sanity. Two simple rules. Order and sanity. Order. Sanity. Order…. sanity. Oh, those two fucking rules. The two rules that were useless once it begun. The day it started everyone clinged to these two things, but as the time around them continued on without giving an answer to help save humanity, people began to break the rules. Why have order when you can have anarchy? Why have sanity when you can discard all that is right and turn towards madness? Those who broke these roles managed to adapt, but yet, many still clinged onto their two little rules like it was their friend. How do these poor people survive in today’s harsh and irrational environments? Sadly, not very well. Faced with the inescapable fact that human existence is mad, random, and pointless, many of them just let that weight fall on them and snap. They break their two rules and become something else entirely. Who can blame them? In a world as psychotic as this... any other response would be crazy! Crazy! Dear, sweet insanity. What even was insanity? Hell, what even was sanity? If one was insane what do they do? Do they talk to themselves? Do they see visions? Do they kill everyone they see? Do they just survive? What is insanity?! All three? Who fucking knew. No one, and at this point in this forsaken life, no one could give less of a damn. Because wanna know the secret? Wanna know how everyone survived for twenty damn, lawless years? It’s a simple truth…. in one way or the other, everyone is fucking crazy! Many people accepted it and simply gave in to the madness that bit away at their minds a long time ago. It sure made life easier, correct? Others denied it, thinking they were perfectly sane, even when the answers were right in front of them. They could be walking down the street and see the ghost of their dead friend, and still call themself a sane human being. Now that’s crazy. “Don’t be crazy.” The voice of a bearded, husky, tired man speaks out of his dry, scratched lips. The man who spoke these words was an older man, nearing his fifties, who has obviously grown out his life. The long long brown hair, the shaggy white and brown beard, the dirty winter hat he wears on a hot day and his ripped up, rusted, dirty clothes all seemed to give that away. “No, no. Don’t be crazy, Bobby! I didn’t get a haircut!” This man speaks to an unknown. “But, wait a damn second. Did you get one? Are you sure? Because something looks different about you today.” The man rubs his stubby beard in curiosity, wondering what was different about his friend today. Wasn’t the hair…. couldn’t be the eyes… hell, even wearing the same clothes. “Wait, don’t tell me. I got it! You’re not standing up straight.” The man points out that his friend is leaning back against the table behind him, positioning him as a crooked and leaning man. His friend always was a bit of a drinker. “Let me help you up, man.” The man grabs the store’s mannequin and positions him upwards onto his white, stone hard feet. It took an extra try, as the mannequin just didn’t want to stand up straight today, but the man positioned him in a perfect stance. “There we go, Bobby. There we go.” The old man gives a fragile smile whilst patting his “friend” on his naked white shoulder, ignoring the hollow sound that followed afterwards. “Now, you keep off the bottle and maybe next time you won’t fall. How many times do I gotta tell you this?” “A lot, I know.” The man chuckles as he lifts up his wrist, which holds home to a cracked watch. Late. A little too late. “Now, I gotta get going. You keep safe, Bobby. I’ll see you soon.” Patting his dear friend on the back one last time, the man turned around to approach the exit. Not before stopping at the front desk to grab his old, stitched up brown bag. This very bag has been with him for longer than the man can remember. It’s as old as him. Zippering up the bag, the man double checks to make sure everything he has is in place. Which, honestly, isn’t much. The bag only holds a few pieces of trash such as empty bottles, alcohol, duct tape, rusted nails, a half-empty water bottle and a flashlight. He doesn’t like to carry around much as the more weight one has the more they slow down. Satisfied, the old man puts on the bag and reaches to grab one last item: a pipe. Oh, but not just any pipe. This pipe was duct taped with rusted spikes all over the top and on the handle to give the best grip possible. This was the man’s signature weapon, and possibly, one of the things he holds dearest in life. After-all, it was this very weapon that protected him so many times in life. He was indebted to this non-human thing, or at least he felt he was. Picking up his savior, the sane man departed from his friend’s home and into the cruel, insane world that was Earth. Earth certainly was an insane world. Truly an enigma. Humanity spends thousands of years building cities and nations, and in only twenty years time, Earth reduces it to tombs. Take the city of Boston, for example. Once the largest city in New England, home to many higher education, and the city where many key effects of the Revolutionary War happened has now been reduced to a broken city. A city that is so meaningless that it could break apart right now and no one would bat an eye. The city of Boston has fallen into a broken city that has been taken back by the earth. The high buildings of the land have been worn out, their strong foundations being turned dull while all power and water have been shut off. The streets once paved and cleaned have been overturned into these cracked, bloody streets cluttered with rubble, broken cars, useless trash and the bodies of people. Some human, some infected, but for certain all were dead, with their bodies left in the streets to rot under the burning sun. The most significant aspect had to be that of nature, which has rose beneath the earth to claim what is theirs. Just as they spread the infection all those years ago, they have since sent their plants to strike. Most places on earth are now a lush, beautiful green, with the city of Boston being no exception. Roots have exploded from the ground, running up and down buildings, with beautiful green plants forming out of them, while trees has formed around the area. The streets of Boston almost looked like a forest, with some streets even being flooded and taking the appearance of a dirty river. Still, despite the tragedy that the hard work of the old world has fallen, there was a natural beauty to it all. The yellow sun projected a beautiful beam of light that seemed to light up the plant life and the water simultaneously, bringing the nature of the fallen city to life. Even more so were the organic life that traversed the city. Numerous birds and butterflies took home in the city, and sometimes, even beasts such as monkeys could be spotted in the city. The city was one hell of a sight for sore eyes. Not as if the man cared, though. Instead of admiring the beauty that sat around him this lone man simply marched through the streets, stomping through the plants that grow beneath his feet. People would think that one would take awe in his lush surroundings, but not this man. This man paid no attention to the world around him. Any awe, creativity or enjoyment has been shredded apart inside his cold heart. It’s what the world did to him. For the beauty that this world may give it was a dark, horrible place that broke everyone who lived on it. The result of living in this world is this man. This damn man. Twenty years. Twenty years of living in a lushful wasteland filled with violence, death, pain and no hope has turned this man into this. A man running from both the living and the dead. Hunted by the infected and hostile survivors. Haunted by those he could not protect. He is a man reduced to a single instinct: survive. Survive he has done. No matter what life has thrown at this man has made it through. Well, he physically made it through at least. Infected couldn’t take him down, sickness couldn’t take him down, people couldn’t take him down and even he couldn’t take himself down. Whatever life threw at this man he survived it, for he is a survivor. Surviving meant playing it smart, which this man always has done. He had traps, schedules, supplies, weapons and brawn to help him survive in this city. Which what he was doing right now. The man, who is heading down one of the many ruined streets of Boston, takes a second to stop his path. Turning his head to make sure no one was nearby, the man soon lifted his wrist to check the time. The hands nearly aligned up to six pm, a time that was a little to late for him. He turned toward the skies above, trying to calculate how much time was left before the night sky took control. The sun was still up, but barely. From his calculations he didn’t have long before the moon rose, and if there was a top tip to surviving it was to never be outside at night. For the night is dark and full of terrors. “You don’t got time for this.” The man mutters to himself in annoyance. He was hoping to search Downtown for some food, but with the sun almost down, it appears he doesn’t have a choice here. A shame, as he is running low on food. Not like he has any plans for tomorrow, though. Letting loose a deep sigh of annoyance, the man turned his course and headed east, away from the falling sun. A few blocks east looked no better than the previous streets did, but yet, the man seemed to be relieved, as if he was home free. Pipe in hand, the man crept towards one of the many dark alleyways, and upon seeing that the ruins were clear, he crept his way in. One could ever be to careful when walking outside. Arriving at the back of building, which just so happened to be a former deli, the man was quick to open up the two, metal cellar doors that lay the ground. Making sure one last time that nothing was in pursuit, the man made descended into the dark cellar, making damn sure that the doors behind him were shut and locked. No one could get in from the outside with the locks the man set up. Now standing in a dark room, which the man can barely see in, he casually walks over to a table that sits right next to the stairs. Digging into his pocket the man pulls out a small, worn pack of matches. Lifting it up the man is saddened to see only three precious matches left in the case. He is really gonna need to make them last until he finds another pack. Still, he needed one at the moment, so he reluctantly pulls out a match and scratches it across the table. The table’s scratch has the match spark up, quickly emitting a bright orange flame that the man’s green eyes stare into. Fire was a curious thing, was it not? A substance that was both harmful yet vital to mankind. It gave him warmth and a light, but as he watched the fire consumed the wooden match he knew that’s not all it good. It was a two way road. Fire could be tamed for people to use or it can corrupt and destroy whatever it touches. Dangerous yet vital, as without a fire, the world is dark and cold like ice. Using the match’s flame the man lights up an array of candles that sit on the rusted table, and in turn, the candle’s flames light up the dark basement. In only an instant the inner workings of this seemingly random basement were revealed. Although small, this cellar appeared to be a makeshift home. A few scattered tables lay around, with some having stacked food, drinks, clothes and other supplies. In the corner of the room was a lone white mattress for the man to sleep on, with a pillow and red blanket to go with it. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stay the night in. The best was yet to be seen, however. For near his bed, laying on a small pillow, was a cat. A fat, old cat, whose gray skin has been shedding a lot of lately. Still, this cat remained the cutest friend the man could ever ask for. Having heard his entrance, the little cat, known formerly as Ms. Whiskers, rose her little ears and turned towards the door. Her green little eyes lit up when she saw the sight of her owner, instantly getting off her little bed and attempting to run towards him. Her limp back leg didn’t allow for that to happen, but the man was already ahead of it and met her halfway, dropping his pipe to quickly swoop up his friend. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” The man strokes her soft, sweet head, which prompts her to purr. This man may be a shell but holding her always gave him a smile. “Daddy’s home now. Daddy’s home.” Giving his angle a kiss on the forehead, and a scratch behind her ears to go with it, the man sets her down on the ground so he can go into his bag. Upon pulling her bowl towards them, the man sits himself on the dirty, cold ground while digging through his bad. Even as he sits on the ground she doesn’t leave his side and rubs against his leg. “I got food too.” Pulling out a withered out box one would assume that food must be inside. What kind of food? Well, anything would be better than what’s actually inside. He rips off the lid to reveal that inside this box were about ten dead, recently half squashed bugs for them to feast on. With one big handful the elderly man grabbed four of the bugs and dropped them into Ms. Whisker’s bowl to feast on, while he continued to stare down at the bugs in reluctance. A delicious meal of dead rodents at his service. Ms. Whiskers didn’t seem to mind as she chowed threw them, but for him it was disgusting. He always hated bugs. Still, knowing what had to be done, the man picked up a bug and dropped it in his dry mouth. It took a few chews and gags for the rodent to go down his incorporating throat. He couldn’t tell what he hated more. The stringy, dried legs that scratched his mouth or the gushy, fat blood that exploded inside. Holding in puke that is desperate to exit, the man simply takes a breath before going back for another bite at the dreadful bug. After-all, he had five other pieces to eat. Five more fucking bugs he needed to shove down his throat and into the growling, boney stomach below. The act took him about five minutes, one for each disgusting piece of shit, but the man soon had them all down his throat. He wish he could say they were tasteful but he could barely say anything now, hell, he could barely gag. Still, he managed to get some food into Ms. Whiskers and his stomach today and that was good enough for him. Hopping onto his tired, blistered feet, the man made his way to the table in the cellar’s backroom. Unlike the other tables, this one didn’t hold any supplies the man could use. Instead the table had a map. A worn out, slightly faded map that details the city of his fallen city. What was unusual was how it was marked. Around the decent sized maps there were a rainbow of colors that marked it. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple and pink. Color coordinated meant organized. It was simple, really. Anything red meant the area was dangerous, blue meant it was completely cleared of supplies, yellow meant there was some, purple meant for unsure parts of the city and it’s surroundings, and pink meant the many traps that the man has placed around the city. The final enigma were seen in dots around various places around the city. Each dot showcased one of the man’s many safehouses which he had around the city. Some were in cellars, some were on roofs, some were sealed off buildings and one even in a church. This particular cellar remained his most active one, mostly due to Ms. Whiskers. It was always good to have multiple safe houses though in case of an emergency. He learned that from an old friend. Picking up the blue marker, the man colored over yet another yellowed part of the city, leaving only a few yellow and purple scattered around the map. After years of picking apart this city it’s finally running out of supplies, and with winter coming it only meant bad news for the man. To some it was an obvious answer. Why not just leave? Find a zone and some people? If only it were that simple. Besides the fact that he had no idea what it was like outside the city, this rundown piece of shit was his home. He’s lived here alone for years. He knows the streets like the palm of his hand, he has traps and houses to protect him, he knows no one can hurt him and, after-all, this city always had a special place in his heart. He isolated himself in this damnation for a reason. He can’t just leave now. Hell, if he’s being honest, the man didn’t even expect to live this long out here. Outside this city was uncharted territory for him. He doesn’t even know how long it’s been since he has stepped outside the city. For all he knew he could be the last human alive in this world of infected. Of course, he could be wrong. He remembers the rumors about the U.S.S.A, some government group who had safe-zones all over the states. Cities such as Miami and Los Angeles were supposedly cities safe from harm. Only rumors, however. Northeast of the states have been generally abandoned by people and left to rot so not much news from the other places out there. For good reason, though. The conflicts that arose in Philadelphia had a devastating outcome, as did battles in New York. So the northeast, and most the East Coast, was left in pieces. Not having the heart to think about this right now, the man simply walked away from the map and opted to collapse onto his mattress. After a quick bounce, due the presence of firm springs, the man rested his head against the hard, cold pillow, which unfortunately did little good for him. Feeling at peace on the old lump of a bed, the man turns onto his side for more comfort, which his body felt but at the cost of his eyes seeing something. His eyes met the ghost of a Christmas past, there to remind him just how much of a fuckup he is. For under the table was a framed portrait from the old world. From his old life. With reluctance the man stretches out his shaking hand to grab the memento of his past. The man could barely look at the picture without tears forming behind the eyes. For the picture consisted of a family. A loving, beautiful family. First, the man looks at himself. The twenty eight year old man that barely looks like the man today. Short brown hair and a clean shaven smiled stand out as noticeable differences, as well is the dress shirt and tie that he wears. This was back when the man wasn’t a shell; back when he actually had a name and a purpose. He was Conner Kilderry and he wanted a good family life. Conner blocks himself from the picture with his thumb and instead focuses on the others in this ancient picture. The young, beautiful woman that was filled with life at his right, who held Conner’s hand with a smile on her face. The best wife he could have ever asked for. On each of their respective laps than sat a boy. On Conner’s sat the oldest, while the younger sat on his wife’s. Both were young. Both were precious, beautiful boys that were perfect in everyway. They were his babies. He was the proud father of two. The hurricane of emotions has Conner put away the picture but his nightmare was far from over. Turning to the other side, in order to escape the picture, Conner is surprised to see that he is not in this bed alone. For to his side was a woman. His wife lays beside him, looking into his eyes with a bloody smile. Gone are her deep brown eyes, instead she haves the empty yellow eyes that all the infected have. Her tan flawless skin has been replaced with paleness and a deep, still bleeding gash that is on her lower neck. With her bloody fingers his wife touches Conner’s face, much to his unpleasant. “Why?” His wife asks with her broken black teeth and bloody gums. “Why didn’t you save us? We trusted you..” Here they come again. Worming their way into the black matter of his brain. They always come to haunt him. Sometimes it’s just wife, although sometimes his children join her in tormenting his failures. Closing his battle weary eyes, Conner tells himself the same message he does everyday. A message he still refuses to accept: they cannot touch him. They are all dead. Yet they still haunt him for his failures. Conner Kilderry is the man who runs from the living and the dead, after-all. Opening his eyes, Conner finds his wife gone but knows she will be back. They always come back. Sometimes when he’s alone, sometimes in the city or sometimes in his dreams, but no matter where, they always find a way to haunt him. It’s a daily part of his run down life; To be haunted by the ghosts of yesterday. Life went on, though. For the next hour Conner finished up his daily routine by counting how much supplies he has left, which wasn’t much. Three water bottles, one bottle of whiskey, few pairs of clothes, one spiked pipe, a butcher’s knife, a baseball bat and a pile of supplies that could be used for crafting. Dangerously low on everything, and from the looks of it, he won’t be finding much more. After his routine was finished, Conner laid back down on his bed once more, ready to make another attempt at sleeping. It never ends well but he needed to at least try to get some shut eye. No matter the nightmares he will most definitely face. Curling up in the blanket, and allowing Ms.Whiskers to curl up on his stomach, Conner was ready for an attempt at sleeping. Unfortunately, his hearing took notice of the outside. The demonic noises from outside his cellar crept through those cracks and into his ears. He heard it all to well. For outside there was a rainstorm that brushed against the city, with the thousands of rain drops hitting the ground creating a sound of bangs that sounded all to familiar to Conner. He heard the roars of thunder out in the distance, as if someone was screaming at the pathetic earth. Worst of all, Conner heard their screams. Their blood wrenching, deformed, crooked screams that rang out of their mouth. He swore he could have heard dozens of them screaming into the night, almost as if they were scared of the storm. Worst yet was how Conner could hear some of them run past the cellar, the plops of their footsteps running through the puddles. Sleep was all but impossible for Conner and his friend that night, for no matter how many times they shut their eyes, the storm and the screams it causes just bring him back awake, forcing him to listen to them. Listen to the tormented screams that they give, the same ones they gave as they took over the world. The same ones they had when they devour innocents. Those damn monsters. Those damn fucking monsters. ---- The next few days were no different. The routine was the same, after-all. Search the city, then go back to a safehouse. The only differences are what he does in between, which is mostly a matter of which friend he visits. Did he visit Bobby at his corner store? Does he stop by the library to meet his favorite, sassy, young librarian Rachel? Maybe head down to the bay and meet with the old, cynical Johnny. Man, so many friends around the city he could meet with. Always so hard to choose. Today, however, Conner didn’t go between his friends, a shocker in his usually dull routine life. Instead, Conner’s focus was on full track today. No time was able to be spared for anything else. For today Conner was stuck on one project and one project only: food. He had zero food left at his bases, and he desperately needed to eat, no matter what it was. Hell, at this point he would take the bugs once again, but Conner couldn’t find any. Conner searched everywhere for food. He double checked every building, he scanned the area for any sort of creature to prey on and checked a few unsearched areas from his maps. The result was always the same with each search Conner conducted. No food. No creatures. No anything. He couldn’t go another day without real food. His stomach felt as if it would cut open itself without it. The survivor could barely had strength to do his daily routine, as no matter how hard he burns the heresy into his brain, bugs do not give him the strength he desires. No, the man needs meat; a true meal. A true meal that life refuses to give to the frail man. For after spending all the sunlight out searching for the simplest crumb to eat, Conner now sits in the cellar home with pure defeat. Alone in the dark corner of the cellar, not even the adorable Ms. Whiskers or the taste of whiskey could fix the defeat that lays in his eyes. He felt like he was gonna starve to death. How hilarious is that? After surviving the infection, diseases, storms and the hostiles out in the world, Conner was gonna die because he ran out of food. Hell, a part of him felt like laughing at the fate he has been given. It’s one hell of a fate, ain’t it? To die from lack of food, considering before the outbreak we had food all over us. Oh, how the damn tables turn. The frustration of today’s failure have Conner slam his fist onto the ground, a grunt escaping his mouth as he does. The disjointed grunt, in due time, evolves into the noise of laughter, especially as Conner dwells on the situation. First it was a chuckle but that transitioned to Conner dying of pure laughter, his hands slamming the knee and all. As the laughter overtakes Conner, his delusional eyes fail him, for a ghost forms at his side. Today the one deciding to haunt him was a child. Sitting at his side was the child of the dead. No older than five years of age the ghost has eyes of pure red as blood and the black lips of a demon. The black, pointy teeth and ripped right ear give him the appearance of that of an actual demonic creature, here to taunt the shell of a man that sits with him. Conner and the boy stare at one another, with the boy reaching his clawed hands to grab Conner by the hand, doing his best to put a smile on his face. It’s as if he was asking Conner to join him in death. As per routine Conner recites the same damn message: They cannot me. They are dead. “No.” Is the only word that comes from his lip, which proved enough as when his eyes opened to the real word the vision that haunts has went back to his realm. For now the ghosts of yesterday leave him alone. For how long? He was in no place to say. Possibly a few days, maybe a few hours? Back in the damn reality of his situation, Conner lowers his shameful head towards the dirt of his feet. Was the dirt that stained the bottom of his feet edible? The one at the bottom of his boots? Whilst this thought fills his corrupted mind, the one breath of fresh joy rubs her head against his clammy hand. The lovely cat that Conner was lucky to call family began to give little kisses on his hands. Smiling at his lovely baby, a million thoughts ran through his head. How cute she was, how lovely she was, how he was lucky to have her and all those lovely thoughts. However, one particular thought had Conner look away from his friend with a shiver. Looking his small home, Conner paused at the clean butcher’s knife that sits at the end of one of the tables. The sharp, clean, small, brutal knife that sat there for Conner’s using. The knife that gave him the ability to hunt, forge, kill. The rumblings of his stomach have Conner stop his thoughts in an effort to touch his stomach. Almost horrifying how little there was in there. Attempting not to shed the tears that wish to flow, Conner focuses his blurry on the little, fat Ms. Whiskers on his left, giving her loyal master an attempt of a smile. ---- One smell that Conner will never take for granted is that of barbecue. Fresh, sweet, burning meat that sat right over the flames, cooking anything on top to perfection. It was such a beautiful smell. One that reminded him of the world that was before this. The Fourth of July family barbecue that he would sometimes dread he now dreams for. That’s life for you in a nutshell. Never take it for granted. Sitting in the middle of the room, Conner took another bite of the meaty, slightly burnt leg that he holds in the arm of dried blood. It’s been to long since he had perfect meat in his hands. Way to long, and as such, Conner takes it not for granted. Still, he knows he must not eat it all. He needs to do his best to preserve this meat for days. Four legs and a few big lumps of meat sit by Conner’s side, and as he already ate half of a leg, it would be smart to save the rest. Putting down the leg, the extra pale Conner sits alone in his room. Biting his lip, Conner’s teary eyes stared around the room, but of course stopped once they hit the item in the back. For in the back sits Ms. Whisker’s bloody bed. A bed that sits under a just as bloody, sharp butcher’s knife. Conner is quick to look away from the bed with the same excuse he’s been telling himself for hours. He had to do it; it had to be done. She would understand, right? If she loved him so much she would understand that he needed to survive. After-all, he was the human. She wasn’t human she was just an animal. She wouldn’t survive without him, so there was no point in him dying. “I did the right thing.” The words stumble out of the fresh bloody mouth of Conner. “I did the right thing….” Did he do the right thing? His only family left is dead? The cut, innocent cat that would do nothing but love him is dead. Dead because...because he was hungry. He was weak. The doubtful thoughts of Conner run through his head, and with each passing minute, he feels more like a monster. Looking up from the bloody meat, Conner’s eyes deceive him once more to have another play date with a ghost. Across the cooking fire sits his wife, who like always, bears almost no resemblance to the beautiful girl she used to be. The black, broken teeth form a smile as her yellow eyes glitter at him, while her hair goes into the cuts and gashes that run down her body. “You’re dead.” Conner attempts to state, but he can’t finish the sentence in a stable voice, with a massive decrease in volume with the words. “And you didn’t save me.” With her ripped in half tongue his wife licks her lips, almost as if she is trying to seduce this doubt into him. “You killed me, honey.” As with the usual routine Conner knows what to do next. He shuts those damn eyes of him and repeats the same fucking message. They cannot touch me. They are dead. He repeats it in his mind until his fingers reach the count of five. It always works. The black matter of his mind usually get the message. His eyes open to a family. Two little demonic boys run around in circles playing tag. One of their little, clawed, black hands tries to rip apart the other like it was all a game. In the middle was the wife, sporting her usual look, and continued to stare at her husband. “You couldn’t save any of us.” Her ghostly voice says soothingly. They cannot touch me. They are dead. They cannot touch me. They are dead. They cannot touch me. They are dead. They cannot touch me. They are dead. The same fucking message plays on repeat in his broken mattered mind but the message is not received. Everytime he opens his damn eyes he still sees them acting like a family from the depths of hell. No matter how many times he plays the message he sees them. After repeating the technique one more time Conner snaps open his pinking eyes to meet a new member of the family. In the arms of his wife sits Ms. Whiskers, who like always, waved her tail as someone scratched her head. Watching as his wife pets his recently deceased family, Conner takes quick notice of the ever bleeding knife wound at the chin’s bottom. It was this sight that turned that depression into the black, growing fever of rage. With only one meow from the dead cat, the uncharastically emotional Conner kicks the fire burning pot that cooked his friend towards his family. A scream of pure anger accompanies him in this kick, only dying down when the hellish family leaves him alone. Adrenaline and anger rush through Conner’s black veins as he stands there, gasping for air in the empty cellar. As the screeching screams of the monsters fill the outside world once more, Conner only glares at the cellar door. It was only those two doors that separated him from them. Separated his vengeance and the monsters of the night. The monsters that took his family, his life, the world. They deserved to die. They deserved to be torn apart. With a powerful grunt Conner snaps around to grab the bloody butcher’s knife from the bed. Done was he running from them. Done was he letting them destroy his life. He doesn’t care if they kill him but he was gonna make damn sure he took out as many of them as he could. This adrenaline of anger is short-lived as breaking glass filled his eardrums. Pausing in his steps Conner looks around the dark lit room until his eyes met the cause of such a sound. The picture that sits under his foot. Lifting the heavy boot, Conner is surprised to find the now cracked portrait of his past. Swooping up the portrait, Conner once more stares at his life that once was. His happy family. The longer he stares at the cracked portrait the more his swelling eyes fall victim to tears. It was hard to believe that he once lived a happy, normal life. He had a beautiful wife, two lovely children, a job and so much more in life than survival. Fucking survival. The same survival that led him to this moment of being completely alone. Falling onto his knees, Conner can’t help but weep as the thoughts flood his head. Thoughts of a normal life. The first time he met his wife, his wedding, his kids births, his college graduation, Christmas mornings...all those thoughts hit him in the gut. What happened to him? He turned from that man to this shell. “I can’t do this.” Are the only four little words that Conner manages to speak in his weeping. “I can’t do it!” Dropping the portrait to the floor Conner instead grips the butcher’s knife with both arms, spending no time in pulling the blade up to his throat. It would be a quick death, an easy death. All he would have to do is swipe the blade against his throat and be done with it. Done with surviving meaningless life, done with carrying guilt and done with the brutal nature. Maybe he could even join his family, if such a thing existed. All it took was one swipe of the wrist and his lifeless body would fall to the floor. These thoughts are interrupted by one last ghost that meets Conner’s eyes. A pleasant surprise was it was not his wife, kids or Mrs. Whiskers. No, this ghost was a far worse type of ghost, one that died the worst death. The slow, painful, empty death. In front of Conner was a ghost who was one of the weakest people Conner ever knew. In front of Conner sat Conner Kilderry, the worst ghost of all. The ghost of himself; the deceased man of who he used to be. The ghost lacked the uncared for appearances and bruises. He instead had healthy dark hair, green eyes filled with life, healthy tanned skin, bright white teeth, clean clothes and innocence. The Conner from twenty years ago sits there, watching the shell that now exists. The two Conner’s stare at each other, each staring into their stark opposite eyes. One was full of life and innocence, was full of emptiness and corruption. One was happy, one was nowhere such a thing. One was a man, one was a shell. One was a man who failed to save those around him, one was a survivor. One was sane, one was insane. Glaring at the man in front of him, the weak man who failed to save his family, Conner’s mindset changed. With a painful yell Conner threw the butcher’s knife at the ghost’s head, hoping to murder it once and for all. Unfortunately for him, the knife passes right through the ghost’s head, leaving the ghost there to taunt Conner for the man he was. Not only the family man but the man that failed. “Don’t tell me that guy is back again? That fucking square. Always to boring. To much of a fucking wimp for my taste. To....sane for my taste. At least that fucking cat is gone, thank the Lord all mighty for that, right?” Another voice booms from the right of Conner, and in an almost an instant, Conner knew who this man was. This man was different from the other ghosts that plagued Conner’s mind for he was not there to haunt Conner. No. This ghost was there to taunt Conner. Throwing his arm around Conner’s shoulders, Conner watches as the smiling ghost of the madman laughed at the ghost of Conner. “What’s wrong, little bro? Looking down for some reason. Was it something I said?” Conner looks up at the insane, twisted ghost of his older brother, Shane. Shane Kilderry laughs like no tomorrow at Conner’s former self, while Conner simply looks away from Shane, the representation of everything Conner tries not to be. The one thing Conner tries to deny what he is. The one thing that is needed to truly survive this world. Insanity. “I think you need a story.” Shane speaks with a wide, laughing smile on his face. “You wanna hear a story about insanity? I got a great one. It’s about this guy who--” Shane’s story is interrupted by the powerful punch of Conner, which successfully knocked away the ghost. Once again standing in the room, free of any ghosts of the past, Conner does nothing but take a long, calm breath. Calming himself for what tomorrow brings. And as such, allowing the cycle of his life to continue. Allowing the circle of life that is survival and pain to continue to guide his life. Now ain’t that fucking crazy? ---- |next = }} Category:Extinction Chapters Category:Extinction Category:Issues Category:Pilots Category:Pops has first comment